


The Version Of Me That Exists In Your Mind

by MissMoochy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dark, Dark Crowley (Good Omens), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dream Sex, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Rough Sex, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24867334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: Crowley invaded Aziraphale’s dreams to see if the angel ever thinks of him. He really wished he hadn’t.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 155





	The Version Of Me That Exists In Your Mind

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't beta'd so all mistakes are my own. If you spot any, let me know. :)

Aziraphale talked a big game about how different he was to Crowley but Crowley knew better. Yes, Aziraphale may feel more guilt than he did, and certainly had more patience than the demon, but as far as Crowley was concerned, they were both bastards, his hands only slightly dirtier than Aziraphale’s. But there was one charming little difference that Crowley would sometimes reflect on: Aziraphale never slept. 

Except now. Because Aziraphale was ‘curious’ and wanted to try it. He’d always admired Crowley’s ability to sleep, apparently, and was very interested in the concept of dreaming. Personally, Crowley suspected Aziraphale wanted to try it because sleep is such an intrinsic part of human life. No living human can opt-out of needing sleep and Crowley suspected that the lack of choice appealed to Aziraphale. He did so love humans and their ways.

Crowley sat in the bookshop, as the hours dragged by, watching Aziraphale in repose. He wondered how it was going, if Aziraphale was dreaming. 

Aziraphale didn’t look tranquil in slumber. This surprised Crowley. His friend was so composed and serene, when sitting in his chair, reading or eating or smiling along to one of Crowley’s anecdotes. Crowley had assumed a sleeping Aziraphale would be as calm and still as the surface of a pond, but now, as he watched, he saw ripples beneath the surface. Aziraphale was curled up in his armchair like a lazy cat, but occasionally, one of his limbs would twitch, or he’d do a strange, jerky whole-body movement that could have been a flinch -- although that was impossible because he had nothing and nobody to flinch from. Worryingly, there was a faint frown between his eyebrows, and his eyes flickered left and right beneath their thin lids. He was seeing something alarming in his dream, Crowley thought. Crowley wouldn’t have intervened but at that moment, Aziraphale made a soft, distressed murmur and he felt he had to help him.

All he did was grasp Aziraphale’s wrist and then he was falling, headlong into nothingness and then colours, a psychedelic vortex of colour, Aziraphale’s dreaming mind. 

* * *

He landed heavily, a mess of tangled limbs on the floor, and he struggled to pick himself up, realising that he recognised the floor he was lying on.

He was surprised to find himself in his own flat. There was his desk, there was the Mona Lisa. And there he was, sitting in his chair, _Crowley_ himself, a Crowley that existed solely in Aziraphale’s imagination.

This Crowley was sat at his desk, looking down at his lap and although it was an accurate imitation of Crowley, his dream alter ego was (he hated to admit it) more handsome than Crowley in real life, his jaw was sharper, his lips slightly fuller and even his eyes seemed a richer shade of gold. Was that really how Aziraphale saw him?

Crowley was crouched on the floor, watching with interest, fully aware that he was hidden to his dream self. This world was ruled by Aziraphale’s sleeping mind, and he was not expecting to see the real Crowley there, so would not notice him even if he was jumping up and down and hollering.

Crowley laughed and slipped his hand down to his lap, making a yanking motion. To the demon’s shock, a sheepish Aziraphale climbed out from under the desk, wiping his mouth. He was dressed the same as always, cream jacket, shirt and a tartan bow tie. His hair was a bit more tousled than normal, perhaps a result of long fingers tugging on the blond curls?

“Did I do something wrong, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked mildly.

The seated Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yes. You’re still holding back. I need you to give me your all. Your enthusiasm. Your love.”

“I’d do anything for you, Crowley.” Aziraphale breathed.

This strange, new Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by the back of the neck, forcing him to bend over the table. He moved out from behind the table and really, were Crowley’s legs actually that long and thin? He had to conclude that they were. Crowley stood behind Aziraphale, pressing his hands on Aziraphale’s back to push him down onto the desk, until his nose was touching the desk. 

He ran his hands down Aziraphale’s back and buttocks. “How lovely you look, angel, he said, and slipped a hand under Aziraphale’s belly, patting his round stomach. “So greedy. Always unsatisfied. Sin’s already got into you, hasn’t it? Deep inside…” He gave a sudden smack to Aziraphale’s backside and the angel jumped. “-- but I think there’s still room to cram some more in you,” he whispered.

“You’re a bad angel,” Crowley went on. His belt hung loosely from his hips, and his flies were undone, evidence of their earlier encounter, but other than that, he looked perfectly composed. He yanked Aziraphale’s trousers down, the underwear with it, and ran his hands appraisingly over the curve of his arse. “Dirty little thing. You don’t deserve your pretty white wings. I should tear them off, feather by feather. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then you’d look as ugly on the outside as you are on the inside.” 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale gasped.

"Get them out. Let's have a look at them."

Aziraphale sighed, and released his wings. They fanned out gracefully, big and white and ridiculously fluffy, in Crowley's dark flat. Crowley ran his hands down, smoothing errant, stiff feathers with the flat of his palm. As if he was grooming him. 

Crowley sighed. “Heaven doesn’t want you, Hell doesn’t want you. Where exactly do you fit in, angel? Some scabby demon is the only one who will take you. The only one who can bring himself to touch you. What does that say about you?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. He’d turned his face away and Crowley couldn’t see his expression.

“I don’t like doing this,” His other self said, and his face showed no emotion. It was curiously smooth, serene as a mannequin’s. Probably because Aziraphale had his face turned away so had no way of knowing what Crowley’s face looked like at this moment.

Crowley jerked his belt out of the loops, the snake’s head buckle dangling like a pendulum. He swished it through the air a couple of times, testing the weight, and, without warning, brought it down on Aziraphale’s buttocks. Aziraphale grunted in pain. "I thought that pain would motivate you to do better, to be better. But you seem to be resistant to change..." He stepped back, giving Aziraphale some room but the angel didn't dare move an inch, awaiting more torture. Crowley sighed, his hand slipping down the front of his jeans, fondling himself as he stared down at the trembling angel.

"You think rejecting people is the way to go?" he said and he almost sounded sympathetic, even as he lined himself up with Aziraphale's buttocks. Aziraphale made a small, miserable mewl that tore straight through Crowley's heart.

“You’re going to have to start letting people IN!” On the final word, he pushed in, no preparation, no miracles. Aziraphale howled, and Crowley jumped in alarm, wished nothing more than to intercede, to save his best friend. But he was a spectator, nothing more. He had no substance in this hallucination. He was a ghost that was never meant to be here.

Crowley began to thrust, and Aziraphale’s cries heightened in pitch, there was a drag to his breathing, Crowley was pushing him so firmly into the desk that his whimpers were muffled.

Crowley grabbed a handful of Aziraphale’s curls and slammed his face into the desk. The smack of flesh on marble was sickening. “YOU REJECTED ME! Never forget that.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Crowley--”

“I’m _sorry,_ I’m _sorry --_ ” Crowley spat, punctuating each apology with a hard thrust. “You never were! Tell me what you said, tell me the line that broke my fucking heart all those years ago, TELL ME!” 

“Please--”

“Remember what you said to me? You said I go too fast. Yeah? Well, TELL ME IF THIS IS TOO FAST!”

Crowley’s doppelganger was slamming into Aziraphale, too fast, too hard, the desk was scraping the floor with every thrust, Aziraphale was driven forward, his nose hitting the desk with every lurch and Crowley didn’t slow down, kept pounding into him, his hands clamped around Aziraphale’s skull, his knuckles knotted in white curls.

Aziraphale’s pathetic whimpers made Crowley feel a red-hot rage, very real, very tangible, a fiery poison coating his heart and scalding a path up his throat. It was a rage that made him want to scream like an animal or thrust a knife in yielding flesh, made him want to rip the skin off his own bones just to distract him from the sight of the two, writhing bodies.

Crowley finished with a grunt, and stopped very abruptly, letting go of Aziraphale so that the angel slumped on the desk. Crowley fastened his trousers, still breathing hard and sat back down in his chair, leaving Aziraphale still bent over the desk. Aziraphale looked like he was trying very hard not to cry.

“It’s okay, angel, I’m here,” Crowley's dream self said softly. The change in mood was startling, the difference between night and day. He pulled Aziraphale into his lap, and this version of him was stronger, and didn't seem at all bothered by the sudden weight on his thighs. He rocked Aziraphale gently, stroking his cheek. His face was impassive, although Aziraphale couldn’t see it, the angel had buried his face in the demon’s neck. Crowley had worn sunglasses ever since he’d started mingling with humans, but that was to avoid blowing his cover. He’d never considered his eyes to be _ugly._ But seeing those flat yellow snake eyes watching Aziraphale sob, he wished he could gouge them out with his fingernails.

He got to his feet and stumbled into the next room, which was a pure, unnatural shade of white because the next room didn’t feature in the dream. At least he couldn't hear the plaintive cries anymore. He threw himself back into reality, and every sickening leap hurt, he deserved to be punished for this. 

He found himself back in the bookshop and immediately turned to the sleeping angel. The rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest was rhythmic, consistent and reassured him, but not much. As he roughly rubbed tears away from his awful eyes, he realised he didn’t have the faintest clue of how to fix this.


End file.
